Esther Chilton

On Tuesday, I announced the winners of the short story competitions I ran at Swanwick Writing Summer School. Here is the story which was awarded first place in the themed competition. Entrants had to write a story between 1000-3000 words on any of the following themes: LIBRARY, JOURNEY or LOVE.

Stick or Twist?

By

David Caunce

Rose blinked as her vision adjusted to the infusion of kaleidoscopic light. Why did she feel like she was waking from a long slumber standing up? She wasn’t a horse or a cow. Didn’t they do that? She’d been called a cow plenty of times when she was teaching. 

The scent of biblichor filled her nostrils. Endless rows of bookshelves were arranged along balconied walls ten storeys tall. Marble floors and stained glass windows lent the place a cathedral-like feel. But in shadowed alcoves, writhing shapes slithered and hissed, studying Rose with eyes like red-hot rivets.

A green and gold sign overhead pointed to ‘Enquiries’. Rose hurried to a polished mahogany desk with a brass counterbell and a notice saying, ‘Ring for attention’. 

She extended her finger to tap the button and noticed her hand. A young hand. No wrinkles or liver spots. Confused, she stooped closer to her reflection in the shiny bell and gasped. Staring back was the Rose of her youth. She touched her face. Felt a smooth, unblemished complexion. And her hair. She ran her fingers through the blonde tresses that came years before her grey pixie look. What the hell was going on?

Her firm tap of the bell button sent its perfect note into the air with the lingering resonance of a meditation chime.

A green door swung open. A tall man in a smart, tweed suit strode out. He took a pocket watch from his yellow waistcoat and consulted the time as he halted. ‘Rose Dorothy Renshaw, 12.30 appointment,’ he said, clicking it shut. ‘Punctual, I like that. Have you brought your ticket?’

Rose looked down and saw she was wearing a navy trouser suit, the one her mother helped pick for her graduation. From the pocket next to her right hand peeped a cream-coloured ticket. She read the words, ‘Mrs R.D. Renshaw. One life remaining.’

‘Excellent,’ said the man, his face bewhiskered, florid, and framed with russet hair. He reminded her of an orangutan. ‘Have you made your decision or do you need some help with the Library?’

Rose swallowed. She had so many questions. ‘I need help. Yes, I can safely say that.’

‘Very well. That’s what I’m here for.’ He smiled and extended a hand – long fingers, nails perfectly manicured. ‘Lawrence Fothergill, Master Librarian, at your service.’

She accepted the handshake and felt goosebumps tickling her skin when he gently caressed her knuckles and planted a tiny kiss there.

‘Enchanted, I’m sure,’ he said.

She yanked her hand away, she wouldn’t stand for such familiarity. ‘What decision, Mr Fothergill? Explain yourself.’

‘Lawrence, please – we’re all friends here.’ He beckoned then strode along a crimson strip of carpet towards the bookshelves. ‘Let’s find your books. You’re a live case so they’re in a high-security vault.’

Rose had to walk two steps to each of his to keep pace. Oops! She tripped over something green and furry that squeaked in protest and flashed along the floor.

‘Bookworm,’ said Lawrence, drawing a flintlock pistol from his belt. ‘They eat unattended books. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’

Rose grabbed his arm. ‘Leave it alone. It hasn’t done you any harm.’ She glared at him, surprised at her anger.

He harrumphed. ‘Very well.’ Holstering his gun, he muttered, ‘No good will come of it. I’m sure the damnable things talk to each other.’

The worm peeked out from around the corner. Rose could have sworn it winked at her.

‘Rose.’ Lawrence clicked his fingers. ‘Don’t get distracted.’ He swooshed aside a plum-coloured, damask curtain to reveal a reading space flanked by leather-bound volumes on a walnut veneer bookcase. ‘This will do.’ He took Rose’s ticket and arranged it with care a foot apart from his shiny master ticket on the third shelf. Yanking a rubber speaking tube loose from a hook, he projected his voice down the golden mouthpiece at the top. ‘The three lives of Rose Renshaw. And be quick about it. Customer waiting.’

After a few seconds, the books behind the tickets parted and three volumes numbered ‘One, Two, Three’ in embossed, gilt thread slid forward from a hidden recess. Book One’s spine was thin and coloured red, Two bulky and amber, Three, medium-sized and green.

‘Let me explain,’ said Lawrence. ‘You have three possible lives. After each life, you come here and decide whether to hold the one you have almost finished or discard it and move to the next. Once you move on, you cannot go back. With me so far?’

‘So I have been here before?’

‘Of course, dear girl. You lived Book One. Didn’t much like it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not supposed to say too much. It’s gone, sealed forever.’ He leaned closer. ‘A brief, painful existence. Died on the streets of London at sixteen. The family created a lasting legacy. But so much unhappiness.’

She sighed. ‘Oh. I see. How awful.’ Her mind whirled with questions. ‘Why can’t I remember the first life? And only fragments of the second?’

‘It’s the effect of this place.’ He twirled his hand with a flourish and the shelves creaked as if the books were shifting in their seats.

‘How do I decide whether to choose Book Two?’

‘It’s my job to help your memory.’ He donned white gloves and wriggled his fingers. Upon opening the thick tome, a silver light haloed his face. ‘I can read from seven pages –’

‘Why seven?’

‘Them’s the rules. Seven pages to help you decide. You’ll get flashbacks most likely, most people do. It’s what people call your life flashing before your eyes.’

‘What then?’

‘You stay with that life, set in stone. Or move on to the next one – in your case, the last.’

‘I only get three lives and can’t go back? I can’t help the girl in life one?’

‘I’m afraid not. Now close your eyes and I will proceed.’

She clasped her hands together as if she were preparing to sing, taking a deep breath while focusing on Lawrence’s resonant voice. Pinpricks of cold touched Rose’s face. She held out her hands. Snowflakes.

‘These are the days,’ intoned Lawrence. ‘Each unique and perfect.’

Rose put out her tongue and felt a snowflake melt there.

Born to a loving family,’ said Lawrence. She saw the scene, a red raw babe, womb-fresh, adoring arms holding her.

‘Great friends.’ Katherine and Diana were on her team in a hockey match.

‘Academic achievement.’ Graduation day, her sky blue robes flapping in the breeze, mortarboards thrown high in the sky.

‘True love.’ Meeting Peter, her accountant husband when working that summer as a croupier on a cruise ship.

‘The children.’ Erin and Julia, her twin stars, kicking and smiling in their cots.

‘A sad day.’ Peter’s funeral. Gone at fifty-eight. Too soon. Aching loss, so many years alone.

‘The final moments.’ She was driving the old green Volvo, black ice, a skid, through the fence, rushing cold water.

The image cleared.

She opened her eyes, heart racing. ‘That’s it?’

Lawrence closed the book with a thwack. ‘Yes. You must decide.’

‘And if I choose the next book?’

‘This life would cease to exist. It would never have happened. Sealed and gone like Book One.’

She struggled to swallow. ‘My twin girls?’

‘Never born if you move on.’

‘That’s awful. It’s callous. Cruel.’

‘No. It’s a choice, Rose.’

‘Stick or twist, is that it? Stay with the life most recently lived or move to the next?’

Lawrence shrugged. ‘You could put it that way.’

She tilted her head back, hands on hips. She knew she could make tough decisions. ‘Okay. I’ll stick with this one.’

Lawrence tutted. ‘You can’t have One, it’s been sealed, silly. I told you that.’

Panic flared in her chest. ‘No. Not Book One. The last one.’

‘You want to move to Book Three?’

‘Nooo,’ she hissed. ‘Book Two. The book you read to me. Just now.’

‘Right. Why didn’t you say so? No need to get your knickers in a knot. Only doing my job.’ He replaced the book and grabbed the speaking tube. ‘Lock in Book Two for Rose Renshaw, I repeat, Rose Renshaw – Book Two.’ He put the tickets in his waistcoat pocket. Her books slid back from view.

‘What now?’

He consulted his pocket watch. ‘For me, lunch.’

She looked at his smirking face – what was it? Smugness? 

‘What about me?’

‘You go back to the enquiry desk. Then poof! You complete your life’s journey. And your chosen book becomes part of the Permanent Collection.’

He held out his arms. ‘A farewell hug is customary.’

That was it. His eyes were sparkling starbursts of amber mischief – schadenfreude. At her expense. ‘Thank you, Lawrence,’ she said grudgingly.

She caught a waft of sandalwood cologne as he gave her a friendly squeeze. And something else. A slight butcher shop tang from his jacket. She shuddered at his touch. This man was not to be trusted.

His hands smoothed down his wavy, black hair, which shone bright with oil under the cathedral lighting. ‘A pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.’ He turned on his heel and hurried away.

Rose opened her hand to see the two Library tickets she had taken from his waistcoat pocket. His was starry and twinkling with great power in contrast to her own simple card. She placed them on the shelf and shouted her name down the tube as Lawrence had.

Nothing.

She tried again, adding, ‘Internal Audit, Random Check.’ The books parted and her own appeared, the traffic light colours as before.

There was still time.

She opened Book Two and turned to the last page, peering through the blinding light. There it was. The Volvo, careering across the road, her granddaughter in the front child seat, her grown-up twin daughters in the back. The car went into the river, sank and disappeared from view – gone. Her family were in the car with her. Wiped out. The devious Librarian hadn’t mentioned that!

The book slipped from her grasp to the floor. The thunk as it landed echoed around the Library sending worms in the penumbra of the shelves snaking into corners. She sat on the plush, carpeted floor, her face buried behind her hands. What could she do? She could move to Book Three. But her family would cease to exist. And Three was a complete unknown.

She uncovered her face and lifted her chin. But it didn’t have to be. Rose Renshaw fought the odds. Just as she had when working with her students. She jumped to her feet and reached for Book Three.

One of the hairy, emerald bookworms slithered up to her foot. The head – well, the end with the blinking eyes – nodded enthusiastically. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Who says I can’t take a peek?’ She picked up the book and opened it.

A cough from behind. ‘The rules say you can’t take a peek,’ said the Librarian, sneering. ‘And you must face the consequences.’ His voice took on a church organ’s low tone at the last word. He scooped up the tickets. ‘Put the books back. Follow me.’

‘But I didn’t see anything of Book Three.’

‘How do I know that? And as they say in your world, it’s the thought that counts.’ The Librarian took hold of her arm.

Oh, what had she done?

He led her down a set of stairs until they emerged into a wide tunnel. At the end, they pushed through double doors into the back row of a large amphitheatre bathed in warm, gentle light. It reminded Rose of the Coliseum in Rome from a spring visit she made with Peter. Names were read out over a tannoy system and a succession of smiling people came through an entrance, waving to the crowd who cheered and whooped – names shouted back and forth in recognition.

‘The Birthday Celebration,’ said Lawrence. ‘For all those in the Permanent Collection of the Upper Library.’ He ushered Rose out, down more stairs and via a long tunnel towards another set of double doors.

‘This one is the Anniversary Circus for those on the wrong path – bringers of pain and suffering to the world.’ Terrible sounds greeted them as they entered another auditorium. She witnessed a scene which could have been painted by Hieronymus Bosch. Grisly, horrific. Tortured souls screaming in agony. Rose put her hands over her ears and ran outside.

‘You have seen the mezzanine levels. Now for the Basement Library,’ said Lawrence in a funereal tone.

Rose followed, more fearful with every step until they reached heavy double doors. She smelled rot and decay and held her nose. They emerged into another Library – this one in a subterranean cavern. A disused mine by the look, with girder roof supports and slime-covered bookshelves.

‘My god, look at the bookworms,’ she cried. They were covered in viridescent spines and bloated like engorged maggots from feeding on a great pile of books in the centre. Librarians wearing boiler suits and face masks shovelled more fodder to the ravenous invertebrates who gobbled each title with glee. 

Rose gasped. ‘Why are they feeding them books?’ Her voice was weak. The implications were too awful to contemplate.

‘No room for all the evil,’ rumbled Lawrence. ‘The lives are stored here for a short while after death. Long enough for a visit to the Anniversary Circus above. Then destroyed to make space for more.’ He strode to the nearest shelf, wiped away oozing pus and placed the tickets ready. ‘Rose Dorothy Renshaw. Transfer from the Upper Library.’

Rose waited, trying not to breathe in the putrid stink. Tears were not far away. She didn’t deserve this.

The books parted and three thin, mouldy volumes slid forward. The dam broke and she could hold the sobs back no longer.

‘Bad lives,’ said Lawrence. ‘It’s all you have access to now.’

A growl from behind. One of the giant bookworms ceased feeding and advanced on Lawrence, eyes aflame, its rows of ivory teeth going straight for his legs. Another followed suit, then another. Soon they were all heading his way.

‘Lift!’ he yelled.

He grabbed Rose’s hand and ran, pulling her along as the creatures slavered and snapped at his rump.

Lift doors parted as they reached the wall. Lawrence stabbed a button frantically with his finger. The doors closed and worms thudded against the outside.

Lawrence swallowed and loosened his tie. ‘That was close. We best go back up.’

The lift lurched into upward motion.

Rose puffed out a breath, her hand on her heaving chest.‘Thank god, I’ve been saved.’

‘Thank the worms,’ said Lawrence. ‘I’ve never seen them behave like that before. They must have developed a soft spot for you.’ He mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief as they emerged into the Upper Library. ‘Damn. I’ve lost track of time. We must hurry, your appointment is almost over. You must choose a life or be left here in limbo.’

He dragged Rose to the alcove and summoned her original three books, saying, ‘Go on, choose, quickly.’

The volumes sat like traffic lights in front of her. Her original choice remained –  impossible.

‘You’re asking me to kill my family or erase them. I can’t do either of those things,’ she said.

Lawrence protested. ‘The life you lived was so happy.’

Her heart felt like it was being pulled out of her chest by its roots. ‘Until I killed the people I loved more than anything.’

The Librarian frowned. ‘How do you know they die in the life I showed you?’

‘I saw it,’ she squealed. ‘I saw them in the river on the last page of Book Two. In the car with me.’

Lawrence’s voice became as sweet and thin as nectar. ‘They might have got out. The book shows the end of your story, not theirs.’

‘But I thought –’

He tilted his head, the gleam returning to his eye. ‘You might be wrong, Rose.’

‘It might mean the end for them.’ She pulled at her lip. ‘I can’t bear that.’ She was going to cry again – and didn’t care.

Lawrence muttered to himself, put his hands in his pockets and sighed. ‘What’s your grandson’s full name?’

‘Harry Peter Naysmith. Why?’

‘Time works in parallel lines here. It’s a quirk of the Library.’

He grabbed the speaking tube. ‘What have you got in there for Harry Peter Naysmith?’

A delay and then a reply from the tube. ‘Three full volumes. Book One is Active. Ages to go yet.’

‘They escaped,’ shrieked Rose.

‘Shhhh. This is a Library, remember. You’ll get me into trouble. And it only proves your grandson was rescued.’

‘But if he lived, there is a decent chance my daughters lived too. Can you check–’

‘No,’ he hissed.  A clock sounded the hour and began to chime, the sound reverberating all around. ‘What’s your decision, quick now.’

‘I’ll stick.’

‘Finally. I’ll call it in. Run back to the desk. Fast as you can.’

She sprinted to where she had started as the final chime sounded. The Library began to blur. She spun as if standing on a record turntable, faster and faster. This is where I die, she thought. I had forgotten that small detail.

She heard one final thing alongside the beating of her own heart back in the icy river. Lawrence’s voice, barely a murmur, a last flickering ember in the hushed darkness of her imagination. ‘Welcome to the Permanent Collection, Rose Dorothy Renshaw.’

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David’s story pulled me in straight away. I loved the story world he’d created and I found myself completely swept up in it. There’s some effective characterisation. We can’t help but feel for Rose and we want her to choose the right life. Lawrence is a crafty character and David brings him bursting to life: ‘…his face bewhiskered, florid, and framed with russet hair. He reminded her of an orangutan.’ At no point does the story sag. It keeps us reading, building towards the finish, with mounting tension. All in all, a vivid, thoroughly enjoyable story. David has an incredible imagination and is a very worthy winner.

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